


A Fire Ignited

by excelgesis



Series: Empire of Ashes (a markhyuck royalty au) [3]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Class Differences, M/M, Making Out, Mark Has A 'Your Highness' Kink, Prince!Mark, Princes, Servants, Sexual Content, servant!donghyuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 17:25:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18473623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excelgesis/pseuds/excelgesis
Summary: “You’re mine,” Mark breathes. “Just as I am yours.”There’s a beat of silence. “Yes,” Donghyuck whispers. “I would like to believe so.”





	A Fire Ignited

**Author's Note:**

> "Ashes denote that Fire was-  
> Revere the Grayest Pile  
> For the Departed Creature's sake  
> That hovered there awhile-" 
> 
> Emily Dickinson, "Ashes denote that Fire was" 
> 
> (P.S. Nite said I had to tag Mark's "your highness" kink so I did. You're welcome?)

              The sun has just risen over the horizon when Mark hears a tentative knock on his bedroom door. He groans and sits upright, briefly wondering why his entire body aches like he has just completed a round of combat practice. He glances down to see that all of the buttons on his waistcoat are undone, and his blue tailcoat from the ball is lying in a haphazard heap on the floor. Strange. He doesn’t normally go to sleep in his celebratory regalia—

               It comes back in a potent flood: stars spilling like diamonds across the conservatory ceiling, Donghyuck’s honey skin on crushed velvet, his melodic voice begging for more and more and more still—Mark feels heat rush to his face, and he scrambles out of bed to grab a dressing gown from his wardrobe just as another knock echoes throughout the room. “Just a moment!” He calls, hastily throwing it over his shoulders and tying the sash before pulling open the door.

               “Your highness, I was beginning to worry.” It’s Gahyeon, the petite servant girl from the day prior, and her eyes travel from Mark’s tousled hair to his bare feet as she clears her throat. “You have a meeting with the Eastern consulate after breakfast. Shall I help you choose something suitable to wear?”

               Mark takes a step backward and lets the door fall shut behind her. “I-I assume anything is fine?”

               A pause. “If I may be so bold, your highness…” She looks to the floor, and Mark is certain he can see color high on her cheeks. “Might I suggest something with a higher neckline?”

               Mark blinks. “Why would you suggest such a thing?”

               Gahyeon meets his gaze before letting her eyes drop to his neck. “I suppose you haven’t looked at yourself in the mirror, your highness? You must have had quite a night.”

               He frowns and turns toward the mirror standing near the cold fireplace. He sees his mussed hair, his arched brows—and he lets out a soft “oh” when he finally takes in the sight of his neck. It’s littered with bruises, dark as ink against his pale skin, and there are several emotions that strike through his chest like knives. The first is a sharp embarrassment that Gahyeon had seen such a thing. The second is a deep satisfaction knowing that Donghyuck had _marked_ him – _claimed him_ – this way. The third is a burning curiosity, the need to know if Donghyuck’s neck looks the same. He swallows and clasps his shaking hands behind his back. “A high neckline would be prudent, yes.” He sneaks one last glance at the bruises – the marks that scream that he _belongs_ to another – before turning to his wardrobe to choose an appropriate coat.

♕

               Donghyuck isn’t at breakfast, and Mark isn’t sure if he feels relieved or worried. He picks listlessly at his food and waves the servant girl off when she offers him wine for the third time.

               “I thought you hated that tailcoat?” The queen gestures toward Mark’s forest-green coat with her fork. Mark suddenly remembers complaining about it the year prior, citing the itchy trim on the collar and the weight of the gold buttons. He feels guilty now, grumbling about something so trivial when there were people in his Empire on the verge of starvation. When Donghyuck was being beaten by the town blacksmith—

               He clears his throat. “I’ve grown to appreciate it.”

               The queen frowns and opens her mouth to reply when the dining room door swings open. The court messenger walks in, the oversized feather on his hat swaying from side to side as he moves, and the king immediately stands to greet him. “Kun, what news have you brought?”

               Kun pulls a tightly rolled scroll from his leather satchel and hands it to the king. “It’s from the Southern Provinces. I trust you’ll find the news quite pleasing, Your Majesty.”

               Mark’s brain flips through a thousand different scenarios as he watches his father scan the document. Perhaps the drought had ended, but at what cost? Was Donghyuck’s family still alive? Was 1,500 silver enough to keep their house—

               “The fighting has ended,” the king says as he closes the scroll. “The war with the nomadic clans is now over. The South has found peace.”

               “What of the drought?” Mark’s voice is loud in the resulting silence.

               A pause. “It continues.”

               There’s a lump in Mark’s throat, but his resolve is iron-firm when he says, “We’ll send aid now, though, correct? Because the fighting has ended?”

               “Why does that matter so much to you?” The queen snaps.

               “Because I’m next in line for the throne, and I don’t want to clean up the mess you make when our people lose faith in their government,” Mark retorts, fingers curling into fists atop the table. It’s not a complete lie, but he knows the entire truth also involves a pretty servant boy with a sweet voice and skin like satin.

               “It’s only natural for people to lose faith in their government.” The queen sniffs.

               Mark feels an anger in his veins, hot and steady and fierce, and he stands up so quickly his chair topples to the floor.

               Kun takes a step back. “I thought you would be happy about this news.”

               “I am.” Mark raises his gaze to his father. “But only if we hold up our end of the deal.”

               A heavy silence falls over the dining room. The king returns the scroll to Kun, who quickly exits without a word. There’s a tension in the air, thick like poisonous smoke, working its way down into Mark’s lungs and threatening to choke him.

               “I suppose you’re right, Mark,” the king says with a sigh. “A man is bound by his word, and a king doubly so. I’ll prepare a trip to the Southern Provinces to assess their need.”

               “Not alone, of course?” Mark raises his brows.

               His father frowns and seems to weigh his options for several moments before speaking. “I suppose it is high time for you to learn how to do these things. We’ll leave in the morning.”

               “Thank you, father.” Mark inclines his head and keeps his voice neutral, but inside he feels elated. He’ll see Donghyuck’s hometown; he’ll bring them the supplies they so desperately need—It hits him then, and he feels an acidic guilt for not thinking of it before. “I assume we’ll need to bring servants along on this trip?”

               The king’s eyebrows lower. “I generally bring about three or four.”

               Mark pauses in order to keep his voice steady. “Does it matter which?”

               “Not particularly. A servant is a servant.”

               Mark swallows. “Might I suggest Donghyuck? I… I _believe_ he’s from the South, so he might be a useful guide.”

               “I could travel the South with my eyes closed. I have no need for a guide.”

               _Dammit._ “He, um, he makes great tea, as well.”

               The king cocks an eyebrow. “All of the servants do.”

               Mark huffs. “He, uh…”

               “Mark.” His father sighs. “You know I don’t condone friendships with the staff. But I’d prefer it if you were honest with me.”

               Mark flinches at the words “friendship” and “honest.” He tugs at the high collar of his tailcoat. “We’re… fond of each other, I suppose.”

               “And that isn’t going to get in the way, I presume?” There’s an undercurrent to his father’s words, a thinly veiled warning that isn’t difficult to catch.

               “Of course not, sir.”

♕

               After their meeting with the Eastern consulate, Mark all but runs to the kitchens. He nearly collides with a maid in the corridor, who gives him a peculiar look with startled eyes, and he apologizes profusely before turning and barreling through the kitchen doors.

               It’s abuzz with activity, servants running back and forth with gleaming platters, wooden buckets, and armfuls of cleaning supplies. But it isn’t difficult to find Donghyuck.

               He’s as radiant as always, with his golden skin and tawny hair glowing in the firelight like embers. His eyes are downcast, focused on a bowl of greens he’s mixing, and Mark marvels at the shadows his eyelashes cast on his cheeks. He’s back in his normal servant garb – a rough-hewn shirt and trousers with a simple pair of shoes – and Mark notes with a sting of disappointment that his neck is free of bruises. But he supposes he’ll treat it like a blank canvas, an opportunity to hold onto, and he strides to Donghyuck’s side with a smile.

               “Donghyuck.”

               He startles at the sound of his name, and the spoon he’s holding falls from his hands with a clatter. Mark reaches for his shoulder instinctively, and Donghyuck’s gaze locks with his own. “Your highness.”

               There’s a shudder that crawls down Mark’s spine at the words, slow like dripping water, and he remembers Donghyuck arched against him, voice high and breathless—He clears his throat. “D-Didn’t I ask you to stop calling me that?”

               There’s a loaded pause. Donghyuck’s gaze travels from Mark’s crown to his polished shoes. _“Mark.”_

               Mark’s throat goes impossibly drier. “I um… I just came to tell you that the war has ended in the South. We just received the news from the messenger.”

               Donghyuck is quiet again, and all Mark can hear is the noise of servants bustling about the kitchen. It’s a long time before he speaks. “Does that mean…”

               “Yes,” Mark says in earnest. “We’ll send aid for the drought. There will be supplies for your town, and for your family.”

               Donghyuck heaves out a sigh. “Thank God.”

               “But there’s more.” Mark raises his other hand to Donghyuck’s shoulder. “My father and I are taking a trip there so we can assess the need. We’re bringing a few members of the staff along, and I thought… I thought you might like to join us.” When Donghyuck doesn’t say anything, Mark lets his hands drop. “You can visit your family, maybe see your old friends… I mean, I’m not sure how much freedom my father will allow, but I can find a way--”

               “Mark.” Donghyuck’s voice is soft and sudden. He reaches for Mark’s wrist and weaves through the kitchen, eventually pulling him through a series of back hallways. Mark blinks in surprise, and the servants bow to him along the way.

               “Donghyuck, what are you--”

               Donghyuck shoulders open a door and lets it slam closed behind them, and Mark barely has time to register the scents of soap and clean linen before Donghyuck pushes him against the wall and kisses him hard. “Mark,” he repeats against his lips. “Wouldn’t you rather stay here?”

               “Excuse me?” Mark gasps in surprise. “Don’t you want to go?”

               Donghyuck kisses him again instead of answering, and it takes Mark several tries before he’s able to push him away. Donghyuck stumbles back, and his pretty features are dark with something Mark can’t understand. “I think it’s safer if we stay here, _your highness.”_  

               It’s a strange reaction, one that Mark wasn’t expecting, and he feels a sudden anger bubble up in his veins. “Everything is already being prepared. We leave tomorrow, and that’s an order.”

               Donghyuck steps forward and reaches up to grab the crown from Mark’s hair. “Given our current relationship, I don’t think this gives you the authority to order me around anymore.”

               “Actually,” Mark snatches it back and places it atop his head with a glare, “it does.”

♕

               They leave the next morning, and Mark feels a strange sort of nervousness gnawing away at his stomach. The palace – along with the Empire’s capital city – is nestled in a high mountain valley thousands of miles above sea level, and Mark has rarely left. He has been to the city for festivals and public addresses, has been on the cobbled streets a handful of times since he could walk, and has seen the capital’s subjects in passing. He had seen the sea once as a boy, and had joined his father on a hunting trip in the mountains on the eve of his 20th birthday. But the majority of his life has been spent inside the palace’s stone walls, and the thought of leaving almost makes him feel afraid.

               He stares out the carriage window as they leave the palace courtyard. The skies are thick with low-hanging clouds, slate gray and oppressive, and he’s sure they’ll be caught in a rainstorm on the way. Donghyuck, Gahyeon, and a laundry servant named Sicheng are on horseback behind him, and he wonders what will happen to them when the storm rolls in. Will they be forced to continue riding? The thought makes his stomach twist. He looks ahead to his father’s carriage – much more elaborate than his own – and is surprised by the dark resentment that burns in his veins. Months ago, he would have given anything for a chance like this, and he would have chafed at the idea of filthy servants waiting out a storm in his private carriage. Now, looking at them through the rear window, Mark wants nothing more than to invite them inside.

               An hour into their journey, and the heavens split open with an alarming flash. Thunder seems to rip the earth in two, and freezing rain falls in glassy sheets. The king shows no sign of stopping the procession, and Mark looks back to see Donghyuck hunched against the downpour. Gahyeon’s hair is stuck to her back and forehead, and Sicheng is visibly shivering.

               Mark frowns and raps his knuckles against the front window impatiently. When he receives no response, he yanks it open and the carriage driver turns around in surprise.

               “Yes, your highness? Is everything alright?”

               “Shouldn’t we stop? The storm is quite serious.” Mark has to yell to be heard over the rain.

               The driver glances forward. “The king has given no such order.”

               “But the servants are suffering.”

               There’s a beat of silence. “You’ve never been one to care for the staff, your highness.”

               Mark’s fingers tighten around the window frame. “Please kindly stop the carriage. That’s an order.”

               The driver frowns but pulls the horses to a stop.

               Mark steps out of the carriage and into an ankle-deep puddle of mud. The rain is frigid, chilling him down to his very bones, and he squints against it as he makes his way forward.

               “Your highness?” Gahyeon calls. “Are you alright? Why have we stopped?”

               He reaches a hand out to her, but she recoils as if it’s a venomous snake. “Please come down,” Mark urges. “You can’t be out in this weather.”

               “But we’ve nowhere else to go.”

               Mark wipes the rainwater from his eyes and gestures outward. “My carriage is big enough for all of us. It’s much safer that way.”

               “Won’t it be uncomfortable for you?” Sicheng asks, pushing his sopping hair back from his forehead.

               “Not in the slightest.” Mark’s eyes slide to Donghyuck, whose gaze burns like molten lead as cosmic raindrops cling to his lashes, and he considers retracting that statement for a brief instant.

               After several more moments of pushing, prodding, and convincing, Mark manages to help the staff down from their mounts and into his carriage. The driver harnesses the extra horses alongside the others, and they’re back on the road before the king has noticed their absence.

               It’s a silent journey – awkwardly so – and Gahyeon and Sicheng sit with straight backs and folded hands. Donghyuck seems only slightly more comfortable, brushing his shoulder against Mark’s with a touch as light as moth’s wings. Mark’s first instinct is to melt into it, to wrap his arms around him and let his breath ghost along his neck, but then he remembers Donghyuck’s fiery behavior toward him the day prior and he freezes.

               Time marches forward, and the rain eventually slows to a drizzle before stopping altogether. Sicheng snores with his face pressed against the side of the carriage, and Gahyeon has fallen asleep on his shoulder. Mark takes the moment of relative privacy to reach for Donghyuck’s hand.

               “Your highness,” Donghyuck mutters, keeping his gaze locked on the carriage window.

               And there it is again, that electric shock sliding down his spine, that crystal clear memory of Donghyuck gasping the title against his mouth, broken and breathy and wanting—he swallows. “I-I thought I asked you not to call me that.”

               Donghyuck quirks a brow. “What else would I call someone who has the authority to force me to participate in journeys I have no interest in?”

Mark frowns and brings his hand back to his own lap.

♕

               They reach the first southern town by early evening. The carriage slows to a halt, and Mark glances out the window to see a dirt road and thatch-roof buildings, squat and quaint with neat flower boxes and straight wooden fences.

               He sits expectantly, waiting for one of the servants to open the carriage door, and feels Donghyuck’s eyes on him.

               “Aren’t you going to get out?”

               “Of course, but I was--” Mark glances at Sicheng and Gahyeon, who are both still fast asleep on the seat opposite him, and bites back the rest of his sentence. He supposes it’s hard to break, this habit of being waited upon, and it stings when he realizes that he has spent twenty-five wasted, spoiled years this way. He frowns and opens the door himself.

               After Donghyuck rouses Sicheng and Gahyeon, they rush to the king’s carriage to escort him out. He brushes imaginary dirt from his trousers and glances across the street. “I sent word of our arrival to the local inn. They should be prepared with rooms and food. After we’ve rested, we can talk with the townsfolk to gauge their needs.” He crosses the street without another word, and it’s only then that Mark realizes how eerily silent it is. There are no merchants hawking their wares, no men in crisp suits or women in satin dresses, no children with ribbons in their hair and dirt on their knees. It’s cotton stuffed in his ears, ever-present and impossible to ignore, and he feels an unease prick at his skin like needles.

               The inn door opens on creaky hinges, and the musty interior is lit by dozens of flickering torches. Mark isn’t sure what he was expecting – a hovel, perhaps, with drunks and vagrants – but the inn seems surprisingly comfortable. The wooden tables are dotted with bowls of decorative stones, and the back wall is lined with doors upon doors, separated top-from-bottom by a wide walkway and railing.

               There’s a clatter from their left – the sharp sounds of something breaking – and a tall, reedy woman steps out from behind a counter with her hands clasped in front of her. “Your Majesty!” Her voice shakes ever so slightly. “And his Royal Highness! What an honor this is, really and truly! Let me show you to your rooms.” She hobbles to a door on the lower level, and Mark notices the stiff set of her shoulders, the hard line of her jaw. She pushes the door open. “This room is for you, Your Majesty. I do hope it’s to your liking. It is the best we have to offer in our _current circumstances._ ” Mark sees Donghyuck flinch at the emphasis.

               And Mark realizes it, like a sudden flame in the dark: she’s not just nervous; she’s not just afraid—she’s _angry._ The king had refused her town supplies and aid for years because of a war they hadn’t started, and they had suffered for it. The nomads weren’t her enemy in that tumultuous battle—he was. His father, who Mark had trusted blindly for years upon years—the thought makes him sick, and he takes a step backward. He sees Donghyuck’s glance from the corner of his eye.

               “The room is--” The king starts.

               “It’s perfect,” Mark interjects, raising a hand and nodding at the innkeeper with his most sincere smile. “It’s more than we could have ever asked for. Thank you so much. We’ll do our utmost to repay your generosity.”

               The woman blinks, and her hand falls from the doorknob. “Right,” she mutters, and she walks quickly to a room several doors down. “This will be your room, your highness. I do hope it’s… to your liking. The rooms for the servants are upstairs, the first three on the left.” Her eyes linger for a moment on Mark before she turns on her heel and disappears through a door behind the counter.

               Sicheng dutifully grabs the king’s trunk without being told and hoists it through the bedroom door. Gahyeon immediately reaches for Mark’s, but he holds up a hand with a grimace.

               “I’m sure I can do it myself.”

               Gahyeon’s brows furrow. “Your highness--”

               “Don’t you have your own things to carry?” He nods his head toward the bag on the floor behind her. It’s no more than a linen sheet wrapped around a bundle of extra clothing and tied at the top with a length of twine, and he feels a sudden guilt toward the heavy, gilded trunk at his feet. It’s a burning in his chest, unpleasant and quickly becoming familiar, and he wonders how long it will take to go away.

♕

               Mark’s room is spacious, there’s a roaring fireplace in one corner, and the bed is lumpy in several spots but not enough to be considered uncomfortable. The bath water is colder than he’s used to, and he frowns in dismay when the faucet runs dry after the tub is only half-full. But the inn has supplied an array of scented oils and soaps that must have cost a fortune, so he uses them sparingly and enjoys the bath as much as he can.

               His silk pajamas and dressing gown slip on like a second skin afterward, and he stares into the mirror resting on the mantel. His dark hair hangs in disheveled tangles, and the bruises along his neck have faded to a dull red that looks pretty against his milky skin. He stands there for minutes that creep by like thick molasses, running his fingers over them again and again. He hears Donghyuck’s breathy “your highness” in his ears, feels his fingernails dig deep into his skin, sees him fall apart under his hands with parted lips and tears in his eyes—

               There’s a sudden knock at the door, and his heart leaps into his throat. “Wh-who is it?” He calls.

               The door opens a fraction of an inch. “It’s me.”

               “Donghyuck,” he breathes. He rushes to the door and ushers him inside. “What… what are you doing here? Do you need something?”

               “I--” Donghyuck starts, but the words die on his lips when his gaze lands on Mark’s neck. The room falls silent, save for the crackling of the fire, and Mark swallows against the tension.

               Donghyuck raises one hand and lets the tips of his fingers brush over each bruise. He presses his index finger against one, hard enough for Mark to suck in a startled breath, and his gaze darkens. “Have you ever felt pain, your highness?”

               Mark coughs. “What?”

               “Pain. Physical, emotional, I don’t care. Do you even know what pain is?” His fingers are pressing harder now, and Mark reaches for his hand.

               “Donghyuck, what’s the meaning of this--”

               “You’ve led a privileged life.” Donghyuck’s voice is softer now, nearly a whisper, and there’s a strain in it that tugs at Mark’s chest. “Everything has been handed to you since the day you were born. Do you know what it is to struggle? To fight to survive? To feel _pain?”_ His hand drops, and Mark is quick to catch it with his own.

               “I… I’m sorry, Donghyuck, I don’t understand—Of course I’ve felt pain, but it can’t compare to yours--”

               “You know nothing of my pain,” he whispers, and the tears on his lashes burn orange with reflected firelight.

               He’s right, and it’s bitter as poison on Mark’s tongue. He can count on one hand the things he knows about Donghyuck, but he’s so busy using their stolen moments to touch and hold him that he never asks to know anything else. He takes a step closer. “Then tell me,” he murmurs. He places his hands on either side of Donghyuck’s face. “Tell me everything. Let me do what I can to help.”

               Donghyuck averts his eyes. “You’re already helping the Empire as a whole. If…” He pauses, and there are star-bright tears making their way down his cheeks. “If you help my family, that’s enough for me.”

               “Is it?” Mark whispers. He catches the tears with the tips of his fingers.

               Donghyuck leans forward as if on instinct, but then his mind seems to catch up and he takes a hasty step back. “It is. That’s… That’s more than I deserve.”

               Mark’s stomach twists. “According to who?”

               “Everyone.” His voice breaks, and Mark can see the trembling of his hands. He takes a hesitant step forward, but Donghyuck shakes his head violently. “Don’t.”

               “Don’t what?”

               Donghyuck’s fingers curl into fists. “Don’t comfort me. Don’t treat me kindly. It’s… It’s not what I deserve. This” – He swings his arm in a wide arc – “And you—I’ve done nothing but _lie--”_             

               “Lie?” Mark blinks, and he feels as if his stomach has fallen through the floor. “When have you ever lied--”

               “My family…” Donghyuck’s voice shakes, and he wipes hastily at the tears with the backs of his hands. “I abandoned them. They… They don’t know I’m here, Mark. They don’t know where I am. I don’t” – He hiccups, and the sound is loud in the room’s pressing silence – “I don’t even know if they’re still alive.”

               “But…” Mark’s mind reels, replaying everything Donghyuck has ever told him, and the air feels as if it’s gone thin. “But the silver a-and the blacksmith and the drought--”

               “It all happened,” Donghyuck whispers. “But not like I told you.”

               “Then tell me now,” Mark begs. He reaches for Donghyuck’s hands, and this time Donghyuck doesn’t back away. “I’m here to listen. Just tell me the truth.”

               Donghyuck shakes his head again and slides to the floor. Mark follows, sitting on his knees and tilting his head in an attempt to look into Donghyuck’s eyes. He’s still crying, and the sight makes Mark want to singlehandedly destroy every miniscule thing that has ever upset him.

               “Donghyuck,” he whispers. “You can trust me.”

               The silence stretches from seconds into minutes. Mark eventually reaches forward to pull Donghyuck into his arms, and Donghyuck doesn’t object. He melts into the touch as if he’s too exhausted to do anything else, resting his head on Mark’s chest with the softest of sighs.

               And Mark’s pampered lifestyle has never lent itself to comforting others, to holding a best friend’s hands through cuts and scrapes and rough patches, but his heart swells like ocean tides for Donghyuck and he feels his pain as if it’s his own. And he remembers when he was six, or possibly seven, and nightmares would plague all of his unconscious hours until he awoke sobbing in his bed. His parents always slept in a different wing, but his nursemaid was kind and would kneel by his bedside and sing a simple tune until he fell back to sleep. It was a pretty thing, a song from the countryside that he had always liked, and it comes to mind now as Donghyuck curls up against his chest.

               Mark clears his throat and begins to hum the song under his breath. He feels Donghyuck stiffen, so he tightens his arms around him and rests his chin against the top of his head. Donghyuck melts against him as the song progresses, and Mark eventually leans back to card his fingers gently through his hair.

               “What are you doing?” Donghyuck breathes.

               Mark looks down to see Donghyuck’s eyes dancing with golden firelight. “When I was young, I would have nightmares nearly every night,” he says softly. “My nursemaid would sing that song to comfort me. It was the only thing that ever helped.”

               “It’s lovely. Do you know where it’s from?”

               “The North, I think. She told me that it was a song to sing for those you--”

               _“For those you love, young prince.” She smiles, gentle and demure, and pulls the duvet up to his chin. She draws an X shape over his heart, and he giggles. “Keep it here always.”_

“For those you need to comfort,” Mark finishes, voice stilted and unsteady.

               “I hardly deserve--”

               “Let me be the judge of that.” Mark leans down to press his lips to Donghyuck’s forehead. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

               There’s a heavy silence. Donghyuck sniffles. “I… I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

               “Do you feel you can’t trust me?” It comes out on an even breath, but the thought makes Mark’s heart ache.

               Donghyuck blinks, gentle and slow, and he looks puzzled, as if it’s a question he hasn’t put much thought into. “I trust you,” he says softly. “But I’m ashamed of myself.”

               “Why is that?”

               “I ran away from my responsibilities. I left my family behind. I’ve been an unfilial son.” He chokes on the sob in his throat, and Mark feels his shoulders start to shake. “The guilt is eating me alive, Mark.”

               It renders Mark speechless. He pulls Donghyuck closer and rubs soothing circles onto his back until he speaks again.

               “B-Before the drought started, I had a stall at the market in town. I sold fruit, vegetables, flowers – anything I could get from my family’s garden, and it was enough for the four of us, but only just. But then…” Donghyuck’s voice drops to a whisper. “The faucets ran dry. Then the well in the town square ran dry. We… we had enough in reserves to last for a few months, and we were supposed to ration it based on need, but it ran out so quickly… Th-the crops failed, the flowers died; I had nothing left to sell… I remember that I once went without food for three days so my mother and sisters had enough to eat.”

               Mark’s heart is in his throat. There are tears poised on his lower lashes, threatening to spill over, and he bites his lip against the poignant sorrow lodged in his chest. “Donghyuck,” he chokes out.

               “And the blacksmith, he… he was looking for an apprentice, everyone in town knew of it. He made weapons and armor for the Empire, so he was the only man with enough money to import extra water reserves from the North. He was well-off, easily the wealthiest man in town… But he had a cruel heart and a dark spirit and…” Donghyuck shakes his head. “I should have known. When he made me grovel on hands and knees, I should have known. He told me I was too frail, too thin… I’d never make it one day in a forge if I didn’t learn strength and respect. And he was right, I suppose, so I let him… I let him whip me every day, five times across each leg…” His hands travel to his thighs, and Mark watches in mute horror as he traces the shapes of the scars that lie underneath the pajama fabric. “But I was too weak, your highness. I could hardly walk for a fortnight. I couldn’t work, couldn’t send money home to my family… I was nothing but a disappointment.”

               “Blasphemy,” Mark whispers. His voice is thin. “You did everything you could.”

               “No!” Donghyuck spits it out vehemently, and Mark jumps. “Even after my legs healed and I worked from sunup to sundown, it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t leave to see my family, but the blacksmith told me he sent my wages to them every week. And it was stupid of me to trust him, I knew it was, _I knew it—_ And I found a metal lockbox with my wages in it a week later, and I realized he had never sent any of it to my mother, and I was so furious and I just… Th-The night the nomads attacked, they set fire to the building next door, and there was such a commotion—the blacksmith was distracted, everyone was screaming and I…” His voice shakes. “I ran.”

               It’s torture, Mark can’t bear to hear another word, but Donghyuck barrels on without stopping for breath.

               “I don’t know why I did it. I just ran as far as I could. It could have been hours, or days, I don’t remember. I ran and ran until I couldn’t see, until I couldn’t breathe… A-And when I came to, I was in the back of a carriage, and one of the Empire’s guards was there… I didn’t know where they were taking me or what they would do, and I was so afraid, Mark, and I was so angry…” His fingers tremble in his lap. “I offered to serve the king if they would aid my family in return. I had to do something to assuage the guilt, and it was all I could think of. When we got to the palace, I took the servant examination and… the king promised 7,500 silver would be sent to my mother after the first week of my servitude. It was a poor excuse for recompense, but…” He bites his lip. “It was all I could think to do.”

               There’s ice in Mark’s veins, stinging and sharp, and he clutches the back of Donghyuck’s pajama shirt. “I told you I’m going to make it right--”

               But Donghyuck is shaking his head and pushing himself from Mark’s lap. When he looks up, the expression of absolute sorrow on his pretty features is enough to wrench the air from Mark’s lungs. “But don’t you see? I don’t deserve it, Mark. Your kindness, your generosity… They’re all wasted on someone like me.”

               Mark moves forward, but Donghyuck moves back until he makes contact with the bedroom wall. They’re still on their knees, the room is quickly darkening as the fire dies, and Mark reaches forward until he has Donghyuck’s face in his hands. “Donghyuck,” he breathes. “You are the bravest, kindest, most selfless human being I have ever encountered in my lifetime. If generosity is wasted on the likes of you” – he leans in closer, and Donghyuck sucks in a breath – “I’m prepared to waste it all.”

               “But _why,”_ Donghyuck’s voice teeters on the edge of a precipice.

               “Because you deserve the world at your feet,” Mark murmurs. He presses his lips to the tip of Donghyuck’s nose, and Donghyuck lets out a breathy sigh. “And I’m sorry I can’t give you that. But when I’m king, and I have the Empire in the palm of my hand, I will give it to you. And you will never suffer again.” He kisses Donghyuck’s forehead, his eyebrows, his cheeks, and stops right above his lips, letting his breath ghost over them just enough. “This is only the beginning, my darling.” And even though Mark kisses him gently, softly, barely, Donghyuck whimpers against his mouth and tangles his fingers in his hair.

♕

               They travel to several towns afterward, with Mark always sneaking the servants into his carriage when his father isn’t looking, but there’s one that remains in his memory like ink on paper.

               It’s a quaint town, nestled in the southwestern hills and crisscrossed with cobblestone streets. It’s livelier than many of the places they’ve passed through, and the townsfolk are friendly and almost ostentatious in their welcome. They place circlets made of twigs and dried white flowers in everyone’s hair, and a woman with a small cloth sack grabs Donghyuck’s wrist as they make their way down the street. Mark very nearly objects, but his father continues walking and he knows he can’t afford to arouse suspicion. He instead watches in surprise as the woman reaches into her bag and coats her fingers in a shimmering golden powder. She smears it along Donghyuck’s cheeks and eyelids before dusting it in his hair, and Donghyuck grins.

               It’s the first time Mark has seen him smile, and it _hurts._ He’s effortlessly beautiful, burning like the sun, and Mark’s heart is palpitating in his throat. He wonders if this is what love feels like: this stinging in his eyes, this yearning on the tips of his fingers—But then Donghyuck turns to smile at him – golden, bright, blinding – and he decides that it is. And he wants to tell him; he wants to shout it from the roof of the palace, but he remembers the silver crown on his head and the royal burden on his shoulders. He turns away with a resigned sigh, but Donghyuck runs to his side and lets their hands brush ever so slightly.

               They make it to the town inn by sundown, and Mark collapses into his bed with a huff. He’s still in his tailcoat, the circlet of flowers is tangled in his hair, and his polished shoes make his feet scream in protest. He kicks them off and lets them fall to the floor. The sky outside his window is rapidly darkening, and he has half a mind to close the curtains before he falls asleep, but his aching feet and tumultuous thoughts say otherwise, and he buries his head into the pillows instead.

               There’s a knock at the door only seconds later, but he’s sure of who it is by now. Donghyuck makes a point of coming to his room every night, at every inn, to talk with him until his eyelids grow heavy with sleep. It’s only in the late hours, when the sun has dipped below the horizon and everyone else has long since gone to bed, and Donghyuck always hurries back to his own room before morning comes.

               The door creaks open. Donghyuck slips inside, already dressed in his striped pajamas, and Mark blinks in surprise when he sees the golden powder still shimmering on his cheeks and eyelids. His hair is mussed, as if he had run his fingers through it, and his pretty lips look ready to break the silence. “I assume you’re about ready for sleep,” he says quietly.

               Impossible, Mark thinks, with the sun incarnate standing in his room. “I can stay awake.” He moves to sit up, but Donghyuck is at his bedside in an instant, pressing down on his shoulders with firm hands. He’s ethereal this way, all golden shimmer and skin like copper coins, and Mark feels something stuck in his throat.

               “I’m curious about something, _Mark,”_ Donghyuck breathes. He leans closer, and Mark is sure that goosebumps are rising under the sleeves of his tailcoat. “Or would you prefer it if I called you” – Donghyuck’s lips are trailing along Mark’s neck – _“Your highness?”_

Mark’s reaction is instant, and it’s almost embarrassing in its intensity. He gasps as a shudder crawls down his spine, and his fingers curl into the bedsheets. Donghyuck laughs, a low and breathy sound, and moves his lips to Mark’s ear.

               “That’s what I thought. Do you like the control that title gives you? Do you like having authority over me, _your highness?”_ His breath is hot against Mark’s ear. It’s an exquisite form of torture, and it takes Mark several seconds before he can answer.

               “No,” he gasps. “I j-just like the way it sounds…in your voice.”

               “So you like my voice?” Donghyuck is methodically undoing the buttons of Mark’s tailcoat, and Mark wants so badly to _touch—_

“Yes,” he breathes.

               The tailcoat is off, it’s thrown to the side, and Donghyuck is stepping out of his own pajamas. He straddles Mark’s hips effortlessly and pulls off his waistcoat and dress shirt in a series of swift movements. “If you like my voice so much,” he murmurs, his eyes dark as pitch, “would you like me to talk you through this?”

               It’s something Mark has thought about before, something that has kept him awake in the night’s darkest hours, and the whine that slips past his teeth is undeniably needy. “Please.”

               Donghyuck’s pretty eyes go wide for an instant, as if it isn’t the answer he was expecting, and a soft “oh” falls from his lips. Mark blinks back at him, nerve endings alight with want, and he twists his hands into the sheets.

               “Sit up, your highness,” Donghyuck whispers.

               Mark swallows and does as he’s told.

               “Now kiss me.”

               Mark doesn’t need to be told twice. He slots their lips together with an incredible fervor, tangling his fingers roughly in Donghyuck’s hair, and Donghyuck wraps his arms around Mark’s neck.

               “Now your highness,” Donghyuck gasps. He trails the tip of his tongue along Mark’s lower lip, his jawline, his neck, and Mark feels a potent desire all the way down to his toes. “Touch me.”

               Mark’s breaths are ragged around the edges when he asks: “Wh-where?” But his fingers are already skating across Donghyuck’s thighs, up, up, and up, and Donghyuck has his head thrown back. His eyes flutter closed, so golden and pretty, and he whimpers.

               “You know where.”

               And it’s not long before Mark has his back against the headboard, trousers on the floor, Donghyuck splayed so prettily across his lap, and it’s ecstasy. Mark could watch him like this forever: rocking against his hips like he was born to do it; pupils blown wide and powdered sunshine painted across his eyelids; tawny, sweat-slick hair tangled across his forehead as he rolls his head back and lets out a broken “God, _your highness_.”

               Mark sees that his neck is still a blank canvas, open and inviting, so he leans up to bite harshly at the skin, and Donghyuck whimpers and whines.

               “Again, your highness,” he gasps. He tugs at Mark’s hair in encouragement. “Let everyone know I’m yours.”

               And those words bring Mark pause. He stops with his lips against Donghyuck’s throat.

               _His. Donghyuck is his._

               Donghyuck’s fingernails dig into his back. “Mark?”

               “You’re mine,” Mark breathes. “Just as I am yours.”

               There’s a beat of silence. “Yes,” Donghyuck whispers. “I would like to believe so.”

               The feeling returns: the stinging in his eyes, the yearning on the tips of his fingers—it’s the image of Donghyuck smiling with golden powder clinging to his lashes; it’s Donghyuck at the edge of a pond skipping stones; it’s Donghyuck standing up to the queen with a pitcher of water in his hand; it’s Donghyuck’s gorgeous face under a ceiling of stars—it’s Donghyuck, _his_ Donghyuck, this pretty servant boy who turned his entire existence inside-out.

               “I’m… I’m in love with you,” Mark whispers. It comes out broken and thin, and he only realizes that he’s crying when a teardrop lands on his forearm, but it’s a relief to speak the words aloud.

               Donghyuck is frozen, his lips are parted, and he blinks several times before letting out a soft: “What?”

               “I love you, Donghyuck.” He speaks the words with more conviction, despite the tears still burning on his lashes. “Irrevocably, unequivocally, and ineffably. You have become the center of my universe. And I know that I--” His sentence is cut off by Donghyuck kissing him hard, again and again and again, pressing him against the headboard until his back aches.

               “I love you,” Donghyuck gasps against his lips, breathless and so, so pretty, and their next kiss makes Mark shudder all the way down to his bones. It’s slow as poured honey, with deliberate touches and heady sighs, and Mark finds himself gasping Donghyuck’s name as he arches into each and every movement. It’s measured and careful, like they both might break, and Mark is whispering soft “I love you”s into Donghyuck’s neck just as often as Donghyuck is murmuring quiet “I adore you”s against Mark’s hair.

               And Donghyuck is the entirety of the universe, Mark is sure. Everything that matters, everything that holds an ounce of meaning, all concentrated into this moment of bliss, this look on Donghyuck’s face. The way he holds onto Mark like he’s drowning, the way he trembles and keens and lets his eyes flutter closed—

               But it’s only later, when Donghyuck tries to leave, that Mark realizes how far he’s falling.

               “I don’t want to go,” Donghyuck whispers, and his brows are furrowed over worried eyes. “But what will everyone think in the morning?”

               Mark grabs his hand in both of his. “I don’t care. I… I want to spend a night with you. An entire night. To fall asleep with you, and wake up with you…”

               “Mark…” Donghyuck wraps his arms around Mark’s waist and buries his face in his shoulder. There’s a heavy silence, and Mark feels tears build along his lash line, but Donghyuck only pulls him closer. “Perhaps we can, just this once.”

               And Mark pulls him into bed with a soft smile. He marvels at Donghyuck’s satin skin, his hair against the pillows, his even breaths and long lashes. “This is only the beginning, my darling,” he whispers, and Donghyuck’s soft smile is the last thing he sees before slipping into sleep.

♕

               A loud knock rouses Mark the next morning, and he opens his eyes to see Donghyuck’s face mere inches from his own. Their legs are tangled, arms around each other’s waists, and there’s a warmth that spreads to the tips of his fingers when he remembers each and every “I love you” in Donghyuck’s melodic voice.

               The knock sounds again, and Mark gently disentangles himself before slipping on his dressing gown and opening the door a fraction of an inch.

               It’s Sicheng, and he simply raises an eyebrow and attempts to look over Mark’s head. “I assume Donghyuck is in there? He isn’t in his room.”

               Mark chokes, and there’s panic sparking through his veins. “Wh-why would you assume such a thing? What time is it?”

               “Time for everyone to wake up,” Sicheng says. He pushes against the door, and Mark scrambles to catch it before it hits the wall. He fails, and it slams open with a bang that has Donghyuck sitting up with a yelp. His eyes widen when he sees Sicheng in the doorway, and he pulls the duvet against his bare chest with a scandalized gasp. “My assumptions are usually right.” Sicheng nods in Donghyuck’s direction and lets his gaze slide to Mark. “A word of advice, though. The two of you have made it incredibly obvious; all the laundry staff have been gossiping about it for weeks. Gahyeon knows, all the members of the kitchen staff know, half the guard knows, and most of the maids know as well. So if your goal is to keep it from the king and queen, I’d suggest acting with a little more” – his eyes take in Mark’s lopsided dressing gown and the bruises on Donghyuck’s neck – “decorum.” He lets the door fall shut without another word.

♕

               The carriage trundles down the dirt road in a series of endless _clatter-clatter-clatter-clatters_ , and the sun is high in the cloudless sky. Mark and Donghyuck have put several inches of space between them, Gahyeon’s eyes are constantly flickering to the marks on Donghyuck’s neck, and there’s a poignant awkward silence hanging in the air that hasn’t been broken in hours. Mark clears his throat again, but Gahyeon simply looks away and wrings her hands.

               They’re en route to another southwestern town, wedged between rolling hills and the Western border, and Mark knows from the morning briefing that it’s Donghyuck’s hometown. He feels a bitter anxiety, sharp as knives in his throat, but he knows it’s nothing compared to what Donghyuck is feeling. And he wants to take it away: all of Donghyuck’s pain, all of his worry and suffering and hurt—

               The carriage rolls to a stop, and Mark looks up in surprise.

               “Your highness,” the driver calls through the window, “I think you should see this.”

               Mark’s brows lower in confusion. “What is it? Has something blocked the road?”

               “Please come see, your highness.”

               Mark frowns and pushes the door open, gesturing for Donghyuck and the others to follow. When his shoes touch earth, he immediately knows that something is wrong. He expects a dirt road or a cobbled street, but instead finds an inch of silvery ash. It sends up billowy plumes as they step from the carriage, and he coughs as it works its way into his mouth and nose. He can make out fuzzy shapes through the haze, wide and distorted like hulking monsters, and he squints. “What is this…?”

               As the ash clears and he steps forward, he’s hit with a sickening realization: it’s a town. The shapes are the remnants of buildings, blackened and sticking up from the charred earth like broken bones. The cobbled streets are littered with gouges large enough to fit a carriage in, and abandoned merchant carts lay on their sides, wheels still spinning in a phantom breeze. Somewhere, off in the far, far distance, he thinks he can hear a child crying.

               There’s a choked sound, and Mark spins around to see Donghyuck on his knees, hands sifting through the ash on the ground. It falls through his fingers again and again, but he continues to pick it up as if in a trance. “It’s gone,” he whispers, his voice strained like a violin string being pulled too tight. “My hometown… It’s gone.”

**Author's Note:**

> me in january: i'm gonna write a markhyuck royalty!au oneshot just for fun lol  
> me now, crying over markhyuck on a daily basis: how did this become a series
> 
> find me on twt & cc @excelgesis


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